


I’ve Seen You Before, John Watson.

by deep_blue72



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, High School, Kindergarten, M/M, Memories, Middle School, Multi, Sexy Times, crayon drawings, idk Sherlock remembering things, primary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deep_blue72/pseuds/deep_blue72
Summary: Sherlock remembers a lot of things in his life. A lot of people and lot of events. Such as; Mummy’s death, her funeral, how it wasn’t raining until later and how that was the first day Sherlock had seen Mycroft cry. Then, when Mrs. Hudson had cooked him a cake for his fourteenth birthday, but Mycroft had secretly eaten it and Sherlock had caught him.But one of the biggest events in his life — was John Watson. And he had to thank a football to the head for meeting him. Well, the first time.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	1. Muddy Crayons

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Sherlock fanfiction that I started at 2 am. Might or might not update. Idk. Hope y’all enjoy!! This is my first time writing in AO3^^ Might post it in Wattpad too.

It was one of those types of days that Sherlock had engraved in his head forever.

Of course, five-year-old Sherlock would remember the day perfectly. It was raining, he had left his bag outside and none of his classmates would get it for him when he asked nicely, so he got it himself. That's when he learned that being nice isn't always good. Mummy was wrong.

He remembered sinking his small, white shoes into the mud and cringing as he walked towards his bag. Sherlock angrily picked it up and headed back to the class he already knew all the answers to with a scowl on his face.

He remembered how the teacher would call on him and ask him a question. Dumb. Easy. Always a dumb and easy question.

"Sherlock, count to twenty for me, please," the teacher would ask with a high-pitched, yet gentle tone. Her pretty blonde locks would bounce as she would crouch down and look at him with a friendly smile.

And Sherlock would do it. He'd do it at top speed and take in the satisfaction of seeing his classmate's shocked expressions. Even more so when he would continue and count up to forty, to fifty. To one-hundred. He could count to any number she wanted. Couldn't she give him something better to do?

The teacher would usually end up bewildered. Oblivious and confused as to what to do with such a genius kid in class. So, she'd leave him alone.

Sherlock didn't like the dumb easy questions, but he didn't really like being left alone. Once the teacher moved on to another kid after praising Sherlock, he knew he'd lost her.

He'd try and gain her attention back by telling her that he could subtract fifty from two-hundred by only looking at cubes. At one point, he said he'd go up to the board and count by hundreds. Didn't work, she'd just smile and then turn back to the student she was talking to.

And it just became boring.

Sherlock would sit in class, glowering down at his desk and muttering under his breath. He hated kindergarten, he already told Mummy he hated it but she wouldn't do anything.

"You have to go to school to learn more and make friends, Sherlock."

He'd tell her that he doesn't need friends and that he's learnt everything that school is teaching.

"Well, maybe you could show off a bit and impress your teachers," Mummy would then say and pull at his cheek.

He would ask when he could join Mycroft in middle school and Mummy would say soon.

And so Sherlock would tolerate kindergarten. Although it was so _very_ boring.

The time when it wasn't boring was the break. Once the bell rang to announce that break had started, Sherlock was the first one out.

Sherlock had prioritised being the first one out mostly because he knew he'd be pushed around if he was any later. His classmates would get all riled up, especially the boys to get the pitch first or claim a spot in the playground. The girls, however, stayed behind and didn't exit as quickly, but Sherlock didn't like girls. They bickered too much and only fought about dolls. If he stayed behind with them to get some alone time, he'd be dragged into arguments about who's doll is prettier or which boy in the class liked who. He didn't know why some boys in his class were having "crushes" on them.

There were a few girls who left with the boys, but most of them just stayed in. Sherlock remembered a particular girl, who wouldn't leave him alone. She had brown hair, always tied up in a ponytail, she "liked science" she told him and would always talk to him about mixing different things together. But she also liked dolls. Sherlock didn't really like her, she talked too much. She didn’t seem _too_ dumb though.

So, he made sure he was the first one out. He's set a routine, where he would tell the teacher he needed the loo at least five minutes before the break and she'd always let him go. Sherlock didn't know why she'd always let him go but he wasn't complaining.

Once out of the classroom, Sherlock did go to the loo. Entered. Stayed four minutes in there, reading a book or just fixing his clothes, then he’d leave a minute before the break actually started. He walked over to the spot right behind the playground. Where a tree was. It was an old tree, Mycroft says it was there even when he was in kindergarten. (He's old. And fat.)

Sherlock would settle down beside the tree. He'd take out his book of the month, sometimes a week, depending on the size of the book. If the book really interested him, then he'd take out his sketchbook and his favourite set of crayons that Mummy had bought him. He'd take those crayons and attempt to draw his favourite character from the book he was reading.

Now, Sherlock remembered all of this. But he remembered that on the one particular day, the rainy day, he had the crayons in one hand and was reaching out for his bag with the other.

It's amusing to him until now, that he would get hit by a football at the exact second his head wasn't protected by the trunk of the tree.

So, Sherlock tried to grab his bag. But, just as the side of his head was exposed to the eyes of his classmates, especially the footballers, he was hit.

The sharp pain that Sherlock had felt against the side of his head was enough to make him let out a small yell and drop his crayon set into the mud.

Sherlock was about to cry, pout and scream for Mummy due to the pain, but he remembered what Mycroft had said about crying.

"Crying makes you seem weak. Don't cry, that's only for idiots. Plus you're annoying when you cry."

He's never seen Mycroft cry.

Sherlock also remembered Mummy comfortingly rubbing his face when a stick had hit him on the face. And he remembered her words, "I won't be there for you every time you cry, Sherlock. You'll have to be a big boy and suck it up. I'm sure you can do it."

So, Sherlock tried to follow what his mother had said. Holding down a sob, he looked up at the perpetrator who had hit him. A football. Someone had kicked it. Hit him in the side of his head. Gave him an ouchie and if Mummy were here, then she'd comfort him but she isn't so Sherlock had to keep himself from crying.

With a grumble, Sherlock grabbed it and then stood up to see if there was anyone to collect it.

Sure enough, he saw a small figure separated from a group of boys and run towards him. The figure became bigger and soon, Sherlock saw a boy. Around his height. Maybe taller. He had sandy blonde hair, dark blue eyes that looked close to grey and he was covered and smudged with icky, yucky mud.

The boy came up to him and slowed down. His breathing was fast, he was sweating. Then he turned around and screamed, "I found it!" Then turned back around and looked at Sherlock.

"You hit me with your football," Sherlock reminded the boy with an angry pout.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you," the boy replied, wiping away mud from his blue shirt. Sherlock cringed at seeing how that shirt was smeared. Mummy would've been angry if Sherlock had done that.

"You should look at where you're going to kick," Sherlock with an angry tone. This boy wasn't Mummy, he wouldn't get scolded for using the tone. "Use your eyes."

"You should sit somewhere else," the boy replied a bit snarky, but not as angrily as Sherlock. Then, his tone softened and his expression did too, "Can I have my football?"

Sherlock scowled at him, finding it irritating how he so absentmindedly completely forgot he had hit Sherlock on the head, that he had made Sherlock angry. And now he was just calmly asking for his stupid football.

"Take it," Sherlock grumbled and then threw the ball to the boy. The boy caught it, observed it, making sure that it had nothing wrong with it. Then, he turned and watched Sherlock settle back down on the grass and bring his book to his lap.

"What are you reading?" The boy asked and tilted his head once his blue eyes landed on the book.

"The Hobbit," Sherlock replied a bit curtly, he was still mad at the boy hitting him with his football.

"And you're drawing as well?" The boy asked him, moving his gaze to the paper and crayons on Sherlock's right side.

"I was drawing how I thought Bilbo looked like," Sherlock explained and then glared at him. "But you made me drop my crayons."

"Oh," the boy blinked and then looked at the floor. He saw the set of crayons that had been dropped to the floor, sunk in the mud. Without cringing, although Sherlock definitely did, the boy dug his fingers into the mud and pulled out Sherlock's set of crayons.

The boy brought the crayons close, then wiped them thoroughly with his already dirty shirt. Sherlock watched in shock as the boy "cleaned" his crayons and then handed them back to Sherlock, "Here."

"They're all dirty now," Sherlock complained and then placed them on his notebook. He'd have to look for that handkerchief Mummy had put in his bag later.

"I said I'm sorry," the boy repeated and then looked at his drawings. He studied them for a second, which made Sherlock a bit nervous and hide them.

The boy seemed to notice that he had made Sherlock uncomfortable and he looked away. Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes as the boy placed the football on the floor carefully, then stood back up and introduced himself, "I'm John. What's your name?"

"Sherlock," he hesitantly answered.

"Sherlock? That's kinda weird."

"It's what Mummy called me."

"Weird."

Sherlock felt a pinch of hurt. Did he really not like his name? Mummy always said he had a nice name. He preferred it over William anyway.

"But I kinda like it. It's weird but cool." John smiled, showing his pearly white baby teeth. A contrast to all the dark, smudged mud on his face.

The hurt left pretty quickly, Sherlock felt more comfortable and he looked away. He quietly muttered a "thank you" and then brought his drawings out from their hiding spot.

"Can I see how you drew Bilbo? I heard my sister say that ‘The Hobbit’ was a very good book. I can't read though, but I'll try and read it when I'm older!" John explained with excitement in his tone.

"You can't read yet?" Sherlock asked him with surprise.

"No. We're still learning that in class," John told him and then tilted his head. Sherlock moved a bit back, mostly because when John moved his head, a bit of dry mud sprinkled off his vibrant, sandy hair. "How can you read if you're in the same class as me?"

"I don't know. I just can," Sherlock shrugged and then brought his book to his attention. "Reading is fun. It's not boring. Not like class."

"When I learn how to read, I want to then learn how to write and tell stories," John shared as he looked at the book Sherlock was holding in his hands.

Sherlock senses John move his head up to look at him again, then asked, "Can you write?"

Sherlock nodded and flipped to the next page. It was getting good, hopefully, John would go soon.

"I like telling stories. Don't you?"

Sherlock looked at John, "I like reading them."

"Then when I can write, I'll write stories and you can read them! Will you help me learn how to write?" John asked him with eagerness and a big toothy smile on his face. "I can show you how to play football."

"Football? I don't like football," Sherlock recoiled and cringed at the mention of football.

"But football is fun! I think it's more fun than reading," John grumbled and then sat down in front of Sherlock, legs crossed and hands-on feet.

"More fun than reading? You must be dumb," Sherlock shook his head and John frowned at him.

Wait. Was John a friend? Then this is what Mummy wanted. For Sherlock to make friends. Calling friends "dumb" isn't something you should do to friends. The way John made a face (a frown) when Sherlock called him dumb was proof enough.

Sherlock learned something new today.

So, Sherlock took it back. "You're not dumb. We just have different hobbies."

"Hobbies?" John asked, tilting his head again. His wide blue eyes flashed with confusion and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a sigh.

Sherlock took a small breath and explained, as simply as possible, "Things we like doing."

"Oh. Well, yeah. But I thought everyone liked football," John shrugged.

"Not everyone likes football," Sherlock told him with a grumble. "Some people like drawing or reading."

"Why don't you like football?" John inquired with a tilt of his head.

"You get dirty and it's yucky. Besides, what's the point of kicking a ball around?" Sherlock explained.

"Yeah, but getting dirty is what makes it fun!" John said right after and smiled. "And kicking the ball is the whole point and you can get goals! You can also play with your friends as well."

At Sherlock's silence, John looked a bit worried. "What's wrong? Is football really that bad?"

"I don't have friends to play with," Sherlock reluctantly and quietly explained.

"Well, I'll play with you," John told him firmly, directly. Made it sound like a promise.

"You will?" Sherlock asked him, confused. Why would he play with him? He's only just met him. Sherlock doesn't even know how to play football.

"Yeah, I'd like some new friends to play with," John told him and smiled again. Sherlock thought that a smile on him looked nice. He liked his smile.

"I'm your friend?" Sherlock echoed. This was going a bit too fast.

"Um...yeah," John nodded. "I want to be your friend."

"But we've only just met."

"So?"

"Don't people have to know more about each other to be friends?"

"We can play football tomorrow at the break and get to know each other!"

"Okay," Sherlock timidly agreed, deciding not to argue or say anything further. John seemed to really want to be his friend. This felt nice. Mummy was right, making friends felt nice. "Where do I see you so we can play?"

"Here's fine," John said and then stood up. "We can play by ourselves and then I can make you join my football team!"

"I don't know," Sherlock backed up a bit at the mention of other people seeing him play.

"Okay then uh, we can play alone for now," John reassured him. Sherlock watched as John picked up the muddy football and flashed Sherlock a friendly toothy smile. "I need to go now, but, I'll see you here tomorrow right?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, still shocked by the whole situation. It all had happened too fast. Was making friends this easy? Why hadn't it happened before then?

"Okie! Good! See you tomorrow!" John exclaimed with a smile and then ran off. As Sherlock turned around to watch him run off, he heard John yell at his friends, with a very excited tone. "I've made a new friend guys!"

Sherlock hid behind the tree before John's friends could respond. He inhaled, deeply and strongly. Did he just make a friend? Was John really a friend? Was he really going to learn stupid football? He guessed so.

Sherlock didn't find the kindergarten so boring after that anymore.

He did end up learning a bit of football. Every break, Sherlock met John by the tree.

John would smile all the time and Sherlock once asked him why he smiled so much.

"I like smiling. It makes me feel happy." John had said.

Sherlock asked if that was really it and he never truly forgot what John had said as a response.

"I also like seeing other people smile when I smile, so that's why I smile."

After he said that, Sherlock then noticed he automatically smiled when John smiled. He didn't mind it.

They played football. It took a while for John to convince Sherlock to play football when it was muddy. But he did it. Mummy didn't like when Sherlock played football when it was muddy, but he knew she tried not to show it, mostly because she knew Sherlock was having fun with John.

When they were tired, Sherlock and John would sit at the bench and Sherlock would explain what he had read in his book to John and John would always listen.

John would always be eating something he was given by another classmate. Sherlock didn't really remember his name. Gavin. Graham. Something like that.

John would ask Sherlock to teach him how to write, so Sherlock would teach him a few things. The first thing he taught John was to write his name and he was satisfied to know that John had learned it by heart in two days. Quicker than most classmates. Not as quick as Sherlock. Who had known how to write his name seconds after John had told him.

"What does that say?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the notebook.

John smiled. "Sherlock and John are best friends."

Sherlock looked over it again and then looked at John. "You spelt my name wrong. And you also spelt 'friends' wrong. 'Are' too.

"Oh, I did?" John looked disheartened. Upset. Sherlock was quick to reassure him.

"No. Wait. Look, I'll teach you again," And so Sherlock did.

John enjoyed Sherlock teaching him, Sherlock could tell. John would always ask what they would learn how to write after football. Sherlock caught himself sometimes asking John if he'd like to go back to football. He made Sherlock like the stupid sport.

Eventually, John did get to write "Sherlock and John are best friends" properly. After a week. And once he did, John gave Sherlock the paper with his writing and told him to keep it.

Sherlock went home that day with a huge smile and told Mummy that John had written this for him. He's never seen her happier.

He really liked John. He liked him so much he wanted to share his lunch with him. (He did. All the time) He wanted to follow him everywhere. (He did. Most of the time) He wanted to show John his books. (He did. All the time.) He wanted to make John sit beside him under the tree. (He didn't. He couldn't get John to sit with him after their little meetings were over. He would always play with his friends, but Sherlock would find that okay. But he'd feel lonely afterwards.) He wanted to do everything with John.

He was his best friend.

One day, Sherlock decided to draw John something. He had it all pictured in his head. Sherlock on the right, with a smile, a blue scarf and a long coat. (He really wanted a long coat. He found them really cool) and John on the left, beside him, with his usual smile and holding his hand. Both of them would be holding hands. Behind them would be a house. Sherlock wasn't able to draw the inside of the house, but he had that picture out in his head too. (There would be a pitch instead of a backyard and they would play football all the time.)

Sherlock would make it his best drawing. His best piece. Just for John. His best friend.

The piece took a while, mostly because Sherlock tried to use every colour in his crayons set. Mycroft called his use of colours "chaotic" and "all over the place" but Sherlock didn't care. This wasn't for Mycroft, this was for John.

When it was done, Sherlock ran over to the tree. He waited for John. When he was five minutes late, Sherlock started to wonder where he was. When it was fifteen minutes, Sherlock looked around for him on the pitch. (He wasn't there. Graham was though.)

Too timid to really ask him where John was, Sherlock entered the school and looked for John. Nothing.

Thirty minutes in, Sherlock felt his bottom lip quivering. He wondered where John had gone and what had happened to him.

At least forty minutes in, Sherlock returned to the tree and held the drawing in his hands. He felt the tears in his eyes, but he could only just repeat what Mummy had said. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When it was time to go back to class, Sherlock asked John's teacher where he was. She told him that John was talking to his "mummy" and "daddy" and they were sorting a few things out.

Sherlock was relieved to know that John was okay, but he wondered what was going on.

He went home sad that day. Mycroft told him to stop being a baby, Mummy scolded Mycroft and told Sherlock that John would be back.

John didn't come back. Mummy lied.

Sherlock couldn't give him the drawing.

He pinned it on his board in his room so he would remember to give it to John when he saw him again.


	2. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primary school makes Sherlock angry. Everyone makes him angry. He hates primary school. John isn't there and he hates it.  
> At least he learns how to play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' on the violin by heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter!! Angry bab Sherlock in primary school, missing John. I'm trying to get chapters out fast since I don't want this story to be too long or take too long. Thank you for the support on yesterday's chapter! It means a lot. ^^

After kindergarten, Sherlock's memory became a bit hazy. Not too much. But enough to lose the tiny little details. Like what he was given for breakfast for example.

Sherlock woke up every day at seven in the morning sharp and he would go to the kitchen. And every day, he would see that drawing on the fridge. (Sherlock had moved it from his board to the fridge so he would see it immediately when he came home) John and Sherlock holding hands. Mummy still kept it up. It had been almost three years since kindergarten.

He's seven now. Going on to eight soon. Mycroft still calls him a baby. (Fat jerk.) Mummy still pulls at his cheek. (Embarrassing.)

Primary school is boring. So boring.

They're learning simple maths. Subtraction. Addition. Multiplication. Everything _boring._

They're also learning how to read and write. Sherlock was one time yelled at for falling asleep in the class.

When he's bored, Sherlock would look out the window, which shows the whole football pitch. Sherlock would sometimes catch himself judging how the football players kick the ball when he looks out the window. John had taught him how to kick the ball properly. Especially how to pass the ball. Sherlock would try and tell himself that one day he'd see John on the pitch again. Or anywhere.

When he'd get bored of watching the players play, he'd bring his attention back to the teacher, only to get bored seconds in.

It was a repetitive cycle, sit in class, wait for break, leave, sit by the tree and read his book. Then go back to class.

He stopped drawing the characters a while ago. But he still keeps the crayon set in his bag. (Mostly because John had held them.)

He told Mummy the classes were too easy. So Mummy tried to help and moved his subjects up a higher grade. He was put with the third graders for a bit, but he was still considered a first-grader, none of them liked him. The questions were still easy.

Sherlock only really enjoyed going home and looking up at the crayon drawing of him and John on the fridge. Every time he looked at that drawing, he felt a smile come to his face and his day was made just a bit better.

The only thing that made it worse was when Mycroft would order him around. He'd tell him to put away his things on his desk because Mycroft had to use it. When Sherlock denied, Mycroft would berate him and tell him everything he was doing with the experiment was wrong. Sherlock didn't cry anymore, but he did get angry so he would try and hit Mycroft. Mummy sometimes caught him in the act.

He ended up learning not to hit his older brother, but instead, use words to insult him. Didn't work, Mycroft would still be able to snap back and make Sherlock angry to the point where he couldn't think properly.

Mycroft called anger a "weakness" and told Sherlock that he was "dumb".

That just made Sherlock angrier. And the smile on Mycroft's face made him furious.

Mycroft was fifteen now, but he acted like he was eighteen. He talked back to Mummy and told her where she was wrong, Sherlock hated Mycroft talking back to Mummy. Sherlock _did,_ however, enjoy when she scolded him. There are a few phrases she used which Sherlock would make more aggressive, but he can't say that to Mummy. Once scolded by Mummy, Mycroft would usually calm down after that.

He'd correct adults, tell them where they were wrong. He'd be able to solve such hard problems and brush them off like they were nothing. He could convince anyone, he mostly used this when he wanted free food. And he _never_ cried or got angry. Sherlock hated Mycroft, he hated him because he knew Mycroft knew so much more. Had so much more power. And he was the older brother. (But he was fat.)

Mycroft also had a fascination with the government. He'd tell Mummy that he'd join the British government and he'd become some rank that Sherlock never really cared about. He'd tell her that he'd do the country some good. Mummy would, most of the time, support him or sometimes, tell him to shut his mouth and eat his food. Sherlock would always snicker at that.

Mycroft would always tell him that "feeling was just useless and pointless" and it stuck to Sherlock. It stuck permanently.

Sherlock swore to not feel anything. If he wanted to be smart like Mycroft, then maybe he'd follow his words. (Not actually admit that he was, but follow them nonetheless) No feelings.

But he couldn't completely do it.

Anger was something that Sherlock felt quite a lot through primary school. He caught himself fuming at Mycroft. At himself. At Mummy. At classmates. At teachers. He found everyone so annoying.

The only person he hadn't gotten angry at was John. He had never gotten angry at John. Not even once. But now he was angry. He was angry at John because he wasn't here. He wasn't here to make his life better. Even the drawing on the fridge couldn't calm Sherlock down.

The anger just escalated when a handful of his classmates decided to make his life harder. They were third graders, second graders would be too dumb to consider this.

"You should go back to grade one, you baby!" A girl in the seat behind him had shouted that at him once. She was angry at him because he got a 20/20 in his spelling test and she had gotten a 10/20.

"Stop showing off, jerk!" A boy had yelled at him after pushing Sherlock against the wall and making him drop all his books on chemistry. (He was learning a new subject because he was bored with the ones he had). He had done this because Sherlock had raised his hand faster and was picked by the teacher to write on the whiteboard. The problem was easy, it was just multiplication. (For the class it was hard. A three-digit number times the one-digit number.) The boy then stomped off, Sherlock was angry but had to keep it inside.

"Nerd." Another boy had growled that out as he walked away from Sherlock. He had kicked Sherlock's book into the mud. Sherlock scrambled to get it and turned around to glare at the boy. He was angry. He was so very angry. This was his favourite book.

Sherlock was so mad, he came home and yelled at Mummy. He yelled and yelled that he hated school. He hated her and he hated Mycroft.

Mummy got angry with him as well. (Should've been expected.) and she sent him to his room.

Sherlock, furious, did what he was told and stomped up the stairs to his room. He was so angry. He was fuming.

He threw the pillows off his bed, he screamed and he kicked. He wore out his tantrum until he was exhausted. And he was exhausted after at least a minute, because letting all that anger out sucked the life out of him. That was his worst tantrum.

Sherlock sat on the floor, his back against the bed.

Mummy came in later to check on him, she sat down next to him and brought him close. Sherlock didn't speak and just closed his eyes. He didn't know whether he should cry or not. He wasn't angry anymore. He didn't know what to feel. He certainly didn't want to cry. He didn't like crying. He felt like a baby. Mycroft would be right if he cried.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm angry."

"Why?"

"School. I hate my classmates."

"Why?" Mummy asked, her tone tightening.

"They aren't nice to me. They call me names," Sherlock grumbled that out. The grip on his shoulder tightened a bit, Mummy was getting angry.

"I'll talk to your teacher—"

"Don't, Mummy. I'll just deal with them myself," Sherlock murmured. Eventually, he knew that he'd get used to it. "I'm not a baby."

"I know you aren't, Sherlock," Mummy comforted him.

"But they call me one."

"Don't listen to them, Sherlock. You're a genius little boy and I'm sure you can figure out a way to ignore them in your head. Like a switch," Mummy told him playfully. It was meant to make Sherlock smile, but it didn't. So she asked something else.

"Anything else?"

"I—I don't know."

"You don't know? You know everything. Come on, tell me," his mother urged him, softly and lovingly rubbing his shoulder. "Your classmates aren't the only thing you're angry about."

Sherlock took a deep breath in. "I miss John."

"I know, but we haven't heard from him since kindergarten. You should make more friends," Mummy told him gently.

"But I want John as my friend," Sherlock whimpered. Oh no, he was going to cry. "I'm angry because he isn't here to be my friend."

"John isn't here anymore, Sherlock. I don't know where he went and neither do you. But eventually, you'll see him one day," Mummy reassured him and placed a kiss into those unruly curls on his head. "Don't be angry, sweetie."

"I don't like feeling angry," Sherlock muttered.

"No one does. But it's okay to let it out sometimes. Remember to tell me what's bothering you when you feel angry, okay?" Mummy told him.

Sherlock crossed his arms and curled up further against his mother. "I want to be like Mycroft and not get angry."

"Mycroft gets angry at times," Mummy shared.

"When?" Sherlock turned to look at her, his eyes widened. Mummy had seen Mycroft angry?

"When I take his cake away," Mummy giggled and then poked Sherlock's nose. Sherlock giggled as well. Mummy made everything better.

But Mummy wasn't there all the time. Sometimes Sherlock would come home to Mycroft, who would ask him where Mummy had placed the cake and Sherlock would swear not to tell him. (Usually resulted in Mycroft chasing him around the house and Sherlock screaming) but sometimes he'd come to the house empty.

Mummy was a hard worker. Very hard worker. She worked very hard at her job. She was a university professor, her subject was biochemistry. Sherlock would always listen intently as she would go into detail about biochemistry. Sherlock loved any type of science, but chemistry was his favourite.

Because she worked so hard, she'd come home late. Around five or six. Sometimes she'd come at nine. Mycroft usually had to pick him up by bike when he could, or Sherlock had to walk home. His feet would hurt when he got to the front door. It was a ten-minute walk.

Sometimes, when riding on a bike with Mycroft in front of him, Sherlock asked him if dad would've picked him up. Mycroft would always get sour when dad was mentioned and told Sherlock to shut up. Sherlock didn't speak about dad after.

Dad was someone he hadn't met, well not properly. Nor did he want to meet him properly. Judging by what Mycroft had told him, dad was mean. And he was mean to Mummy and he was mean to Mycroft. Mycroft also told him that Dad was mean to Sherlock when he was just a baby.

It's good that Dad left, but Sherlock doesn't know exactly why. Not like he cared. He only needed Mummy.

Pushing thoughts about Dad aside, Sherlock decided to follow Mummy's advice and do what she told him to do. Like she had said, ignore people and use his mind to just "switch" them off so he would not acknowledge them at all. It was easier said than done. Sherlock still got angry and still couldn't completely ignore them.

One day he came home angry again, Mummy was there, fortunately. Mummy told him that he needed a distraction, something to vent. Sherlock told her that he was studying for that, he explained that studying calmed him down (just a bit) but Mummy believed he needed something else.

About a month after, Sherlock almost tripped over a huge rectangular-shaped box wrapped in shiny golden gift wrapping paper. At first, Sherlock was angry. (Like always) Finding the obstruction frustrating. But, he analysed it and after shaking it a bit, he guessed what it was. It wasn't heavy, nor did it make a clinking sound, meaning it wasn't metal or glass. Sherlock looked around his room, trying to figure out whether this was a real gift that Mummy had given him or just Mycroft plotting some evil, stupid prank again.

Sherlock decided to take the risk and ripped the packaging open. He found a cardboard box, so he opened that as well. Once the gift was open, Sherlock stared, wide-eyed at what was in front of him. It was a violin case, black, soft, and just the right size for Sherlock. Almost desperately, Sherlock opened the case and saw the beautiful instrument inside of it. He took it into his hands quickly, observing it with wondering eyes that could only really take in how beautiful it was. The wood was glossy, smooth, it felt nice to touch. His fingers grazed against the strong strings that would eventually loosen up once he started to play. And, inside the case was the long, elegant bow. 

Sherlock never really showed interest in the violin, but now, he was practically drooling for it. He always thought it sounded pretty, but he never thought he'd be able to hold one. Or get the chance to play. This had made his day a thousand times better. No book could give him this much excitement. He hadn't smiled this much ever since John left.

Mummy said that she had bought the violin for him to learn and let his feelings out without having to speak them. She gave him a book with all the songs he could learn and Sherlock was shaking with eagerness to get to learn them. Mycroft told him not to play after the evening because he'd have to study and he also threatened to _kill_ Sherlock if he even dared. Sherlock didn't care.

The first song he ever learned was 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'. The first few days were focused on getting to know how to read music sheets. He had it practically memorised by two days. He could read the notes perfectly, knew which of the strings was which and more. The only trouble wasplaying the notes.

But he got that down rather quickly too, he memorised the song in a week. Mummy was thoroughly impressed. Mycroft was rather annoyed, but Sherlock could see in there somewhere, that he was jealous. 

Sherlock _loved_ the violin. He _adored_ it. When his classmates called him a baby, or pushed him onto the muddy ground, or kicked his lunch, he'd come home and play the violin. Closing his eyes, he'd let his hands do the work. Releasing all that anger, making it a harmony. A glorious melody. A masterpiece.

It worked, Sherlock was less angry. Not that it had completely disappeared. But he was less angry nonetheless. He was more quiet, more reserved. If he didn't have John to hear him, then he'd play the violin. 

Sometimes he'd wonder if John would've liked the violin. Would he have enjoyed watching Sherlock play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in front of him? Would he have clapped? Cheered? Hugged him? Sherlock could only wonder. He hoped John was alright, at least. He hoped he'd see him again. 

Maybe he'd make a song for John. Something that he thought he'd like. 

Hopefully, he'd get to play it for him.

Primary school went fast. Sherlock signed up for the music electives after school, he was placed with the band since the group he was supposed to be in was way too easy for him, he was placed with the primary students that were going to go to middle school soon. They were eleven. Sherlock was a blink away from eight. And _he_ got the solo. He tried to join chemistry classes too, but they wouldn't let him in, because he was _too young._ So, he learned it himself.

It got tolerable. He didn't make friends. But there were a few tolerable people. Graham (Gavin?) had stayed since kindergarten. He was alright. He was tolerable. He played football fairly well, Sherlock could see him from the window. 

Even if they didn't share the same classes anymore (Sherlock had been placed with the fifth graders since the classes _his_ age level were way too easy), he sometimes found Graham walking around the halls and the boy would wave at him. 

Sherlock didn't become close, he didn't want to.   
He wanted John. 

When primary school ended, Sherlock stood on the stage and watched the mix of parents, teachers and siblings all clapping in the audience. He didn't know what the big deal was. It was just a transition from the fifth-grade to the sixth-grade. The start of secondary school. He already knew eighth-grade material for Christ's sake. (swear word, Mummy said not to use it).

Mummy and Mycroft were there. Mycroft didn't look too happy, he looked bored. He had just turned eighteen, Sherlock was sure he'd prefer leaving and doing adult stuff. Sherlock didn't care, he could leave if he wanted to. 

Mummy was proud, Sherlock could see she was. Her smile was big, her eyes were warm and as her hands came together to clap for her son, Sherlock felt his heart swell up. But something was missing. 

He had hoped that John would be on the stage with him. Or at least in the crowd. He wondered how he would've looked like now. 

Sherlock was taller than most of his classmates. (Most boys were 143 centimetres in height, Sherlock had had a growth spurt and had grown to 149 centimetres in height. He was sometimes picked on for it, but really, he couldn't care less.) 

Would John be taller?   
He was taller than Sherlock in kindergarten, so, maybe.   
  
Would he still have his short, sandy blonde hair?   
Would his eyes be lighter or darker?   
Would he still play football?   
Did he know how to write properly now?

Sherlock could only really wonder. And the more he wondered, the more his heart hurt. He didn't like thinking about John anymore. It only made him sad. 

He'd go home and play 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' for the tenth time this week to get John out of his head.


	3. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ends up being a co-writer for a pirate novel in middle school. At least it passes the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update guys! I had to split this chapter in half since the previous version I had was triple the size of the other chapters. But, you’ll get a chapter really soon after this one!! Hope you enjoy. (Victor is precious)

Middle school was a time that was very diverse, considering what happened when Sherlock was in it.

The first few years, started off fine. Middle school was boring. The classes were easy. If Sherlock could find a formula for a 'growing up potion' he'd do it in the school's lab with no hesitation. He wasn't allowed to take any higher subjects besides the one above him. If he was in sixth grade, he could only take seventh-grade subjects. He knew ninth grade stuff already. He was aching to do more chemistry, to delve deep into the lab and try mixing whatever chemicals there are. He had the whole periodic table memorised, he just wanted to experiment.

Mummy complained the school did nothing. So, in the end, Sherlock gave up.

Band in middle school was tolerable. He had no friends in-band (obviously) but it seemed that the members actually respected him. He appreciated the fact that they steered away from him when he so obviously did not want to talk to any of them.

He'd play his violin solo in rehearsal, bow when done and then leave with a stoic expression on his face. The teacher had tried to convince him to stay and bow with the band but to no avail.

After that, he just let Sherlock leave the stage.

Something he came to notice as well in middle school, was that people were beginning to "crush" on others. Actively looking for relationships that would, on average, only last a week. (If truly fortunate, then a two.)

Boys would usually try and impress the girls in their class by showing them their football skills or how 'strong' they were. Girls would dress up more, curl their hair around their finger when their crush was around.

Sherlock found it repulsive.

It was everywhere and he could not getaway.

He would share his frustration about it to Mummy. She'd tell him that he'll find a girl he liked eventually. Sherlock would always scoff and roll his eyes, telling Mummy that crushes are stupid and so are all girls. He probably shouldn't have added the last part, because Mummy gave him one good hit to the back of the head with a newspaper and told, no—ordered him to be nicer.

What he found even more repulsive and certainly, very annoying, was the fact that a certain girl in his class had taken a liking to him. This girl was the same girl back in kindergarten. He remembered her, but never truly cared enough to learn her name. Brown hair, longer this time but still placed in a ponytail. She wore, what Sherlock deduced, cheap lip gloss every time she'd sit next to him.

They'd sit together for math since they were partnered up by the teacher. She was the only smart enough person to understand the problems. (The hardest problems in sixth grade) Sherlock didn't bother talking to her and focused on his own math problems. Which he had brought from home. (He took them from Mycroft's old ninth grade book. Algebra.)

One day, the usually quiet girl decided to finally speak and do something. Sherlock found this annoying and he hoped that she would give up.

The girl would peek at the math problems Sherlock was solving. Once he gave her a glare, she leaned back and timidly asked, "A-Are those ninth grade questions?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Yes."

"You-you know how to solve those?" The girl asked again. It seemed that no word left this girl's mouth without it coming out like a stammer or stutter.

"Yes," Sherlock grumbled out.

"They look v-very hard," the girl stated and then gave Sherlock one of the most nervous smiles he's ever seen on a person. He expected her to faint from anxiety in front of him. "You...must be really smart..."

"I am," Sherlock finished the horrible, awkward conversation with that grumble and turned back to his problems.

He sensed the girl shift uncomfortably, her skirt was rustling as she brought her legs close together and took a deep breath. Sherlock glanced at her briefly, noticing that she was trying to wipe the sweat off her hands on her thighs. She had sweaty hands. (Ew.)

Sherlock moved his gaze back to his math problems once the girl looked up and opened her mouth to say something. He watched her in the corner of his eye. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. (So indecisive. It was painful.) But she eventually did get something out.

"I'm Molly," the girl stammered out, desperately trying to get Sherlock to talk.

"I didn't ask," Sherlock replied grimly, not even looking up and didn't feel a thing when "Molly" looked at him with a hurt expression.

"You're...uh...Sherlock, right? You've been here since kindergarten. I remember..." Molly still continued to attempt to make small talk.

Sherlock was frustrated with her. He only wanted to finish these problems and read another book while this stupid class passes. Then he could go home and play Mozart's 40th Symphony, first movement on his violin. (He was so close to perfect it.)

Sherlock let out a loud sigh and turned around to look at her with his eyes narrowed.

Five seconds, that's all he took to look at her.

Five seconds and information came in like a waterfall.

He took in all of her. He let his brain come up with deductions. Little hints and clues of where Molly was, who she is, who shes talked to. Sherlock could get everything he wanted to know about her just by looking at her.

She was here since kindergarten, seven years in this hell of a school. Her family wasn't wealthy, probably struggling because her uniform looked like she had worn it for multiple days and that hideous lip gloss looked cheap. She was an only child. No siblings, no competition. No one to talk to at home, so she was clumsy with her words. It wasn't a surprise that she didn't have many friends. Another thing he could tell was that Molly had eye bags, she wasn't sleeping properly either.

That's all he could get for now.

"I remember you as well, see? Does that make you happy? I remember you from kindergarten because you always put your hair up like that, you don't want to change your hair because you're scared on how your 'friends' are going to see you with your hair down. Katherine doesn't even care, Molly. As long as you don't take Brian from her. She hates you with your hair up or down. Get some new friends, stop lying to yourself and find some new people to talk to since you obviously don't have a sister or brother. You barely talk to your parents. And you've become desperate, so you're trying to talk to me? Really? And, also, that lip gloss looks awful on you. You'll have to use a better, more expensive one that doesn't make your lips look like you put a chunk of Vaseline over them. Tell your parents to buy you an actual lip gloss from an actual make-up store instead of buying it from the pound store. It's not that much, it's not going to kill you or make you fall into debt. Also, stop 'flirting' with me. You're doing an awfully painful job, it's hurting my brain. I don't like you, I don't have a crush, and if I did, it wouldn't be you, so—"

Sherlock slid her worksheet closer to her and leaned closer as well. Molly's breath had gone quick, her eyes were glassy with tears, her bottom lip was quivering. She was going to cry. He knew she was going to cry. Sherlock knew he had struck something. He felt a twinge of pity and shame, but not enough for him to care.

"Do your math problems and shut up," Sherlock growled and then pulled back.

He brought his gaze back to the worksheet but was able to see, in the corner of his eye, Molly turns around to face the worksheet. Sherlock knew the girl was on the verge of tears. It was a miracle that she hadn't started yelling and crying at the top of her lungs.

What did take Sherlock for surprise, however, was when he saw her grab her pencil, wipe her tears away and sniffle. She continued the math problems, her face was scrunched up and she was sniffling. Her expression still looked like she was struggling and about to let out a sob. But she was holding it in.

Most people would've cried and hit Sherlock. (Maybe told the teacher). But this girl didn't. Molly didn't.

Maybe Sherlock should've respected her more.

Molly wasn't friends with Katherine anymore after that day. She still mostly wore her hair up, but in certain days, she'd wear it down. More boys would notice her. Brian would notice her and Katherine would get mad. Molly found new friends.

Sherlock would notice she'd have her hair down when they had math together. He's made it explicitly clear he didn't want anything to do with her romantically, or even in a friendship. He's called her names and proven her wrong so many times. He's been rude to her, he tried to get her to leave. But she stayed. And Sherlock wondered why.

He didn't tell Mummy any of this of course, no, if he did, he'd be scolded. (Maybe hit on the back of the head again) And forced to become friends with Molly. (The thought of it made Sherlock shiver).

So, he tolerated Molly. They sat side by side in math. Sherlock would finish much earlier, Molly would take the whole class.

He'd only really speak to her to answer "yes" to the "Should I fill your water bottle?" or the frequent "no" to the "Can you help me with this question?"

Sherlock didn't help her because he knew she was asking that for attention from him. When he said no, she'd always turn away with a defeated expression but then write down the working out and correct answer on the sheet of paper with no problems. She was smart, just attention-hungry and desperate.

Thankfully, Sherlock would always get away from her before she could follow him after class. He'd run out of class quickly. Molly wouldn't be able to follow him because of the crowd and in addition, her new friends were quick to stop her to talk. And then they'd scurry off.

If he was lucky, Graham would stop her by the door and ask the usual. "How's your day been?" or "Can you help me with biology?" (Gavin was infatuated with her for months. At least he kept Molly at bay.)

Sherlock kept his spot behind the tree. The tree was still there, same size, same wood, just older. Sherlock collected some wood examples from the tree to run an experiment at home (He wanted to study the moss growing on it. He wondered why it was growing on the bark even though the tree got sufficient light.)

But in the end, he'd sit by the tree at lunch and break. Read the novel of the day and then slowly, with little bites eat the grapes Mummy packed him. He liked the grapes. They were quick to eat, efficient, nutritious and it didn't slow him down. The only con he found with grapes was the usual sour grape, which would make him cringe. (Grapes were the only things he would eat, he gave the sandwiches to random people in the class who wanted them. If unfortunate, he'd have to give it to the boys who pushed him around. He had to give the rest of his lunch away because he knew Mummy would get mad).

Sherlock's days would go like this for a while. At least half of sixth grade was spent like this. With the occasional bully encounter. They couldn't do much now though. Usually, they'd just slap papers out of his hands. Or maybe throw papers at him. But they couldn't push him or chase after him, or really punch him properly, Sherlock was still taller than most of the class. He liked that advantage. He'd sometimes see 'freak' written with a permanent marker that was obviously running out of ink. Sherlock once chuckled once he found that at some point, 'freak' was written with a whiteboard marker and he could just easily wipe it off. (Idiots. Morons. Check the markers you use if you want to bully me properly.)

"Freak" was a word he's grown accustomed to now. It had become his name for certain people. His second "name" would be said in many ways.

Sometimes straight to his face. Sometime in the paper that was thrown at him. Sometimes in his locker. (With permanent marker or whiteboard) And very rarely, Sherlock would see it on a sticky note behind his back.

When he hard first heard it, Sherlock was confused.

Freak?

Why?

Because he was smarter?

Really?

There were many other kids who could be called freaks and it would fit them better. For example, the boy that sat beside him in English. He would twitch when he got to the eighth word of a long sentence, or he would laugh at animals being hurt or sometimes just randomly start giggling. They called Sherlock the freak and not him? (What the hell?)

But Sherlock had to admit, it hurt at first. It hurt and he hated it. Every time he was addressed as a freak, his chest would tighten up and he would have to gather the strengths of all the Greek gods (he had learned them through reading) to be able to truly control what he was about to say next. Sometimes words would spill out, hurtful words, but true ones nonetheless. He'd either get a sharp glare or a punch, but he didn't care, he got to say what he wanted. If they called him a freak, then he'd reveal their deepest fears and secrets in front of their smirking friends. (Bullies came in groups most of the time).

The word lost its meaning after everyone's overuse of it.

There were people who didn't call him a freak, just ignored him. (Sherlock found those people to be smarter.) Then there were people who still conversed with him and didn't acknowledge the name his bullies had gifted him with. (That was just Molly and the teachers).

But the bullies weren't the biggest thing that happened in middle school. Sherlock found the arrival of a new student more significant than whatever the bullies put him through.

He remembered being in chemistry class, bored out of his mind and tapping the pen again the table. (Intentionally, to annoy his classmates and the teacher, for bonus points). Sherlock didn't even look up when the door opened, he didn't even look up when the teacher announced that there was a new student. But he did look up once his name was called.

Sherlock brought his eyes up, narrowing them in frustration at the teacher and then glanced at the new student.

Red—no, maybe strawberry blonde hair? Or sandy blonde? Could Sherlock see properly?

Dark eyes. Sherlock couldn't see whether they were grey or brown, but he did know they were brown. He looked around Sherlock's height, maybe shorter. A bit shorter.

A big smile on his face.

Sherlock's breath stopped for a second. John?

He hadn't said that name ever since the last day of primary school. But once he thought of it, he could almost feel the memory of John. His heart flooded with warmth and hope. He hadn't felt this way in forever. Was this really John? Did he remember him? Would they be friends again?

Oh god, will I be able to give him that drawing? Sherlock asked himself as he looked at the boy.

He wasn't sure if it was John, but oh god did he hope it was. Sherlock didn't know what John would look like now, but he hoped that the boy in front of him was John and he hoped that the boy in front of him would sit next to him and say, "Hi, Sherlock. Remember me? I used to play and teach you football. I said that we were best friends. I'm so happy to see you." Then he'd smile. Pearly white teeth. Most baby teeth are gone but his smile wouldn't be toothy. He wouldn't be smudged and covered in mud, he'd be wearing a clean uniform. Maybe his sandy blonde hair would be neater this time, maybe his eyes would be lighter—

Oh God, why was Sherlock feeling like this? He couldn't breathe. He felt his fingertips become numb. He gulped down a small lump that was gathering in his throat. The idea that it may be John excited him, it put him in cloud nine. God, he hoped it was John.

The teacher finally introduced the student in front of the class. Sherlock's small paradise shattered and he was brought back to reality with a painful fall and smack to the ground.

"Let's welcome Victor Trevor to the school and be nice to him," the teacher announced.

Victor.

Trevor.

Not John.

"Victor, you can take a seat next to Sherlock," the teacher told the new kid and pointed at the table Sherlock was seated in.

The class snickered, Sherlock stayed silent, hoping that his poker face was good enough to not reveal his disappointment and frustration. Victor looked at the class with confused eyes but then made his way over to Sherlock and took the seat beside him.

Victor said "hi" and Sherlock didn't respond. Victor was like Molly. He liked the small talk. (Sherlock hated it). But Sherlock did pay attention once Victor told him his hobbies.

"I like football. I also like to write. I think writing is pretty fun," Victor would mutter cheerily as he flipped through pages of the chemistry book.

"Have you written anything yet?" Sherlock one time asked him. He didn't ask any questions until this one.

Victor looked surprised. Shocked that Sherlock even speaks. Then, he smiled, "No. Not yet. I'm hoping to write a novel when I'm older though."

"About?" Sherlock asked further. He didn't want to admit that his curiosity was peeking.

"Pirates," Victor said with a hushed whisper.

"Pirates?" Sherlock repeated, sort of let down. He wondered if John would've written about pirates or something more interesting.

"Yeah, pirates," Victor repeated with a smile and then he'd go back to his work.

Sherlock had to go through at least two months of listening to Victor telling him about his novel's plans.

He forced himself to ignore the boy, but he couldn't.

Victor was something else, really. He was a lot more immature than Sherlock's classmates. He would make up fantasy worlds that a seven-year-old would think of. He'd doodle pirates on his sketchbook and he'd also snort a bit when he laughed.

His classmates picked on him and laughed at him, but not as bad as they did with Sherlock. (There was no laughing with Sherlock, just pushing and hitting).

Victor made only two friends. One random boy that Sherlock had never seen before called Mike. The other, Sherlock couldn't care less to remember his name. (Mike was tolerable, so Sherlock made sure to learn his name).

And, in Victor's eyes, he considered Sherlock a friend. While Sherlock considered him tolerable.

He learned that Victor planned to have two protagonists in his novel. One called Yellowbeard and the other Redbeard. Yellowbeard would be more of a sidekick, Redbeard would be the main character. They'd go adventuring together, travelling the seven seas. Somewhat of a cliché pirate story.

Sherlock was also introduced to the antagonist, who's name was Manic Jim (Sherlock had expressed his distaste for the name in the form of a grumble when he had first heard it). The villain would have a ship called the 'East Wind' and he'd heavily injure Redbeard at some point.

Victor would go on and on about his novel. There were points where he'd ask Sherlock special questions.

"How do you think Redbeard should die?"

"I thought he was your protagonist," Sherlock replied as he poured the remaining bits of hydrochloric acid into the beaker. Victor had the magnesium strip and he would have to time it once it was dropped. (Sherlock was so bored with this experiment, it was one of the easiest things to do, he could do it with his eyes closed. God, he hated this level. He wished he was in grade nine already. Ten would be even better.)

"Yeah, but if I kill him then it'll be more interesting right?" Victor shrugged.

Sherlock looked at Victor briefly. He was bored with this experiment, he was bored with this class, he was bored of Victor's story. God, he was bored with everything. If he could get Victor to shut up while he does this lab, that would be great.

"You should have him walk the plank," Sherlock said dismissively, he couldn't care less.

"That's one of the most boring ideas you've given me," Victor complained and Sherlock turned to look at him with a confused, maybe a bit angry expression.

"What?" Sherlock asked as he slowly took the magnesium strip but didn't drop it into the beaker just yet.

"Let him walk the plank is boring! You're never boring. You complain about stuff being boring but you're never boring. You do those fancy experiments and like, tell me my whole life story when looking at me once. Why are you suddenly giving me such boring ideas?"

Sherlock stared at him. He didn't know what to say. There wasn't even a coherent thought in his head that was good enough to be articulated into words.

Victor didn't find him boring.

Well, obviously.

He was the most interesting person in this dull and boring school he's stuck in.

But no one had told him themselves that they didn't think he was boring. In all honesty, Sherlock took that as one of the best compliments for him that had come from someone other than Mummy these past few years.

"Then, in that case," Sherlock tried to think of an interesting death for Redbeard. Walking the plank was boring, Victor was right, but Sherlock had only said that to get Victor to shut up. Now, he'd actually try.

"Why don't you add the possibility that Yellowbeard could have been working with Manic Jim from the beginning. Then, when as he got closer to Redbeard, he got more hesitant to kill him since Redbeard was his friend. Manic Jim could then brainwash and manipulate him enough for him to cross a line and kill his best friend. So, then Yellowbeard would gain Redbeard's trust enough to trap him in an island and drown him. Leave him for dead with the skeletons of previous pirates the bottom of the well."

Sherlock turned to look at Victor who had a stunned expression on his face. Victor looked down at his notes, then back at Sherlock, "I'll have to re-write parts of the story then."

"So?" Sherlock arched a brow, he grabbed the magnesium strip and hovered it over the beaker. "Just write it again."

"Can you help me rewrite them?" Victor asked and Sherlock accidentally dropped the magnesium strip into the beaker.

Sherlock turned around to face him and tried not to glare.

He was partly angry because of the fact that the mere statement had made him drop the magnesium strip into the beaker, starting the chemical reaction when it wasn't even being timed, throwing off the whole experiment. (There wouldn't be enough time to redo it, they had to finish these three trials. There are only ten minutes left. Ugh.)

And he was also partly surprised that Victor would even suggest that Sherlock helped with his novel.

"Rewrite? You want me to help you rewrite your story?" Sherlock repeated, then rolled his eyes. The fact that he was helpingVictor find a better demise for his protagonist was enough. Sherlock really wasn't up for helping the boy finish a full-blown novel. "I have better things to do you know. I can't help you rewrite a moronic pirate story."

Victor didn't react to Sherlock calling his story moronic. Or if he did take it in, and was hurt by it, he did a good job of concealing it. Victor just smiled at Sherlock. "It'll be fun."

They got yelled at by the teacher for discussing other matters that weren't related to the class.

Was it fun? Sherlock didn't quite know. It kept him busy after he finished his "harder" questions in science. Once Victor would finish his own work, Sherlock would hand him a list of things Victor could work on for his story and where he went wrong with character development and the such. Then Sherlock would leave, leaving Victor to fix everything and Sherlock would have a calm and peaceful lunch by the tree.

Victor's spelling was horrid, he'd have to practice it much more, but Sherlock knew where he wanted to go with it. He described settings rather well, his titles needed more work though. Once Victor would fix things up, he'd give the extract of his novel back to Sherlock. (Sherlock would read it at home while playing the violin.)

When Mycroft heard ofVictor, he asked if this was going to be another friend that Sherlock would obsess about for years. Mummy scolded him but Sherlock didn't speak.

Until now, the mention of John was something he felt strong emotions towards.

He hadn't spoken of John to Mummy ever since that one time he told her he missed him. Mummy seemed to have let it go, Sherlock wished he had too but just the mention of the name sent his mind reeling.

Victor wasn't like John. They were similar, yes. But Victor didn't have that warm, cheery smile. Even if Sherlock had met John in kindergarten, when they were both five, that smile of his had been engraved in his head forever.

Yes, Victor liked football and writing. (He was good enough at football. Writing, not so much.)

Yes, Victor approached Sherlock. He wasn't scared of him.

Yes, Sherlock...liked Victor. But there was something different when he thought of John.

It probably all came down to the fact that John was one of his first-ever friends. His best friend in fact. Maybe that's why he had affected Sherlock's life so much.

Sherlock tried not to think about John. He really tried. Whenever the name or thought came across his head, he'd play the violin. Any piece would do. He'd play it with his eyes closed and let the melody coming from the beautiful instrument to release any thoughts of John that Sherlock had.

Victor's novel started to become something like the violin to Sherlock. He'd use it as a distraction, or just something to secretly write his feelings down on. Victor didn't notice but was very impressed and happy with how Sherlock was managing the story.

The story did progress and the more it did, the more Victor smiled and talked. (Sherlock hadn't quite made up his mind if he enjoyed Victor talking or not.)

One particular day, the secondary school set up a singular day for the students to come dressed as anything they wanted. Sherlock remembered having to deal with Mummy constantly telling him to go dressed up. She wouldn't back down and Sherlock absolutely refused to go with a costume. Mummy lost the fight and Sherlock was able to go to school with no costume at all. Victor took this opportunity to come dressed as a pirate. (Obviously).

Victor slid in next to him. Sherlock held back a grumble because of Victor's pirate hat, which was softly touching his head. "What are you up to today, Yellowbeard?"

"Planning your murder," Sherlock would reply, eyes glued on the worksheet.

"That's what he does in the book," Victor giggled and then sat back on his seat, leaving Sherlock to his problems.

Months went by, Victor and Sherlock would keep up the routine of sharing ideas for Victor's novel. Ideas would either get through (most of Sherlock's ideas did) or get thrown off (Victor's ideas weren't really strong). 

By the end of seventh grade, the novel was nearly done. At least two more chapters were left.

"Thank you for helping me, Sherlock," Victor smiled. He showed off those metallic wires in his teeth. He had gotten braces over spring break. "I've always wanted to write a novel like this. You made it better."

"Your novel had no hope on surviving with only you writing it, Victor," Sherlock shared honestly with him and Victor let out a small, fake 'ouch'.

But, Sherlock took a deep breath and crossed his arms. He didn't know how to give compliments properly, so he tried his best. "Your spelling has...improved. Considerably. It still does have a long way to go. Maybe you'll get out of sixth-grade reading level soon."

"I hope so," Victor chuckled. His mother had called him from behind, so Victor turned, shouted: "I'm coming!" And then looked back at Sherlock.

"Leave, it's summer holiday anyways. You can continue writing it through summer," Sherlock told him plainly, moving his gaze away.

"I will but," Sherlock watched as Victor took a step towards him. Sherlock tensed up as the boy wrapped his arms around him. (His head against Sherlock's neck. He was just a bit shorter.) "Thank you for being my friend."

Victor then pulled back, said his final goodbyes with that cheery smile on his face and didn't wait for Sherlock to say "goodbye" back before he sprinted off.

Sherlock watched as Victor ran over to his mother's car. As the boy ran over to the car, Sherlock imagined John in his place. He had never seen John leave, he never saw him again. But, he took the chance to imagine him. He took the chance to get something similar to closure and so he imagined John. Sandy blonde hair, messy because of the wind, dark blue or grey eyes sparkling with happiness and warmth.

Victor turned around and waved farewell to Sherlock with a smile. But all Sherlock could see was the image of John. Smiling, waving as if nothing happened. Sherlock only saw Victor again once he entered the car and drove off along with his mother.

Sherlock stood in silence, wondering what he would do now.

It would be a long two months, Sherlock thought. The violin would have to do for now, now that the novel was not in his reach anymore.

"Are you going to miss your pirate friend?" Mycroft's annoying voice entered Sherlock's ear and his eyes almost rolled to the back of his head because of how forcibly he rolled his eyes at him.

"He isn't my pirate friend," Sherlock replied harshly, not looking at Mycroft. He could hear Mycroft walking towards him. (The tapping of the fancy shoes against the floor was the first thing that Sherlock heard and he knew Mycroft was coming his way).

"I did hear 'friend' come out of his mouth when he hugged you. Or am I mistaken?" Mycroft asked with narrowed eyes. "Don't tell me you don't see him as a friend, you clearly care about the boy."

Mycroft stood beside him and turned to glance at him, "Did you not give him a number or something similar so you could keep in touch?"

"No," Sherlock mumbled out his answer. He regretted it. He regretted it badly. He should've given Victor a number, or who knows, an address so he could send letters. He should've given him something. "I didn't think he'd want one."

"You're quite obtuse at times, brother mine," Mycroft shook his head as he turned his gaze away to look at where Victor had gone.

Sherlock didn't want to admit Mycroft was right. After that, Victor didn't contact Sherlock, he probably wanted to but couldn't.

Sherlock frowned.

_Great job, Yellowbeard._


	4. Gemini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds a new interest over the summer break, but it comes with a grim surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter!!!! I have the next one almost done as well so hopefully I’ll get that out soon! Thanks for the support guys!!

Summer holiday went by slow. Too slow. Sherlock found himself bored, even with the violin and chemistry experiments, he found it boring. Tranquil and silent was something he'd grown accustomed to, but now, he found it boring. So boring, he could shoot the wall up with a gun and create patterns with the bullet holes. (Mummy wouldn't like that too much though.)

To try and pass the boredom (and not think about his regret of not giving Victor his contact) Sherlock would read murder cases. Interest in them had formed ever since Victor asked for deaths for his characters.

While Sherlock was knowledgeable in many different types of death, he wanted to read about serial killers. Each of them with their pattern, their style, their communication through the corpse. Sherlock found it fascinating.

Murders were one thing, a single murder here and there was interesting. But God, he loved serial killers.

He found the ones that played with the police considerably more interesting than the others. The fact that they're hidden in plain sight excited Sherlock. Whenever he walked to the store or through crowds, he wondered which one of these people was a killer hiding in plain sight. Deductions got him to a few places, he had deduced some people to be killers, but considering that he was fourteen years old going to fifteen was not going to help him catch them. Sherlock promised them silently that he'll find out whether or not they've killed someone in the future.

"If someone comes across you reading those type of cases it will just make you seem like more of a freak, you do know that right?" Mycroft once told him that at the dinner table before stuffing his food into his mouth and narrowing his eyes.

Sherlock dismissed Mycroft's comment and placed the newspaper down on the table. "I found my future career."

"What is it?" Mycroft sighed and looked down at his plate, piercing the next piece of food to go into his slimy, disgusting mouth.

"Consulting Detective," Sherlock told him. "It's my future career."

"Consulting detective' is not a real career. Choose one that actually exists," Mycroft mumbled with his mouth full. (He always had bad table manners with Sherlock. If Mummy saw him now, he'd get a smack to the head.)

"I made it up. I'm going to be the only consulting detective in the world," Sherlock explained further. Then, he smirked, "I'll have an international reputation."

Mycroft gave Sherlock his usual, familiar eye roll and went back to eating his dinner.

And so as summer progressed, Sherlock got more and more interested in killers, murders and crime. He would tell Mummy to stay on the news channel if he heard anything that could mean a murder. Sherlock would take a look at the suspects, link the details of the crime and come up with his guess.

Sherlock's "guesses" started to become pin-point correct answers.

He'd guess that the suspect wasn't guilty, then the police would find that they weren't guilty after weeks.

He'd guess that the innocent was guilty, yet the police would take aeons to prove that.

Sherlock usually grumbled and yelled at the television once the police made a moronic mistake. It was not hard at all, the evidence was right there!

At one point, when passing by the police station, Sherlock entered it just to get further information about the murder that had happened. (Fraternal twins found dead) He knew once a big event like this happened, it would cause people to bicker and gossip. Many people would trade theories, opinions, pointless gossip and Sherlock could listen in to everything they're saying and get the information he needs. So, of course, the police were rambling about it, wondering where the killer was and why they couldn't catch him. As the police bickered, Sherlock's brain took in the information he needed about the case. He'd sit in the waiting room, if people asked why he was there, he'd put on a puppy face and explain "My mum lost me so I came here". It usually worked.

As he sat in the waiting room, he listened to the police talk about the case. The twins were found by a river, their cause of death was drowning, but they had vertical cuts on their wrists meaning someone had slit their wrists before dumping them into the river. Sherlock stayed in the police station for hours, hearing them bicker and converse. Once they stopped, Sherlock looked up and went through the case again in his head.

He could picture the twins. Right by the river, bled out, corpses bloated a bit from the water. Blue-tinted skin, eyes wide.

With a smirk, he left the police station, satisfied with what he knew.

The 'Twins Case' was a case he focused on for a month. With frequent visits to the police station and small curious questions, Sherlock managed to gather almost all the information he needed. The suspect that the police had arrested had no alibi, but Sherlock knew it wasn't him. It couldn't be. So, he crossed him out.

More twin killings happened in that month. Mummy became worried, telling Sherlock to stay inside. (He always stayed inside) and Sherlock would have to remind her with a roll of his eyes that this 'killer' had a type, a style and a pattern. Sherlock wouldn't be killed, he didn't have a twin.

It was obvious that this killer wasn't any killer, but a serial killer and Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying himself. Two more pairs of twins were found dead, people finally started to notice the pattern and started calling the murderer "Gemini", mostly because he killed pairs of twins (referencing Castor and Polydeuces in Greek Mythology) and also because the first pair of twins had been killed around the months of late-May to late-June and had only been found now, in July.

Sherlock focused so hard on the case, that he forgot about the violin, about Victor, about John. It kept him busy and happy. Excitement always came whenever he found something new. Frustration was accepted when he couldn't find something out, he'd rather be frustrated than bored.

And so, once he had a sufficient amount of evidence on the murderer, Sherlock decided to go to the police and show off.

Sherlock strode in with a big smirk on his face, ready to blow the police's minds with his folder of evidence and hints that they so stupidly missed. But, as he walked in he slowed down once he saw that there was more commotion than usual.

There have been more bodies, Sherlock deduced and then grinned. Excellent. More information to find. More clues to get.

Excitedly, Sherlock ran up to the counter and told the receptionist that he had something that would help them with the Gemini murderer. The receptionist looked at him with shocked and confused eyes.

"I'm William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but just Sherlock is fine," Sherlock introduced himself so she knew the name of the genius who would soon solve this case. "And I've got something useful for you."

"Take this folder and then go out there and examine the bodies again," Sherlock was almost prancing in place because of the excitement, he was waving the folder with the evidence and hints that he's collected in his hand, in front of her face. "You've missed so many obvious hints. They're everywhere, I can show you—"

Sherlock got stopped once he saw the receptionist turn to face his right and soon, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock turned around to glare at whoever had interrupted him. In front of him, a tall man with brown hair with streaks of silver was looking down at him with dark, brown eyes. Judging by his outfit, he was a cop himself. Obviously. Maybe he could take Sherlock's evidence to the detective in charge—

"Young lad, I don't think you should be here," the officer told Sherlock with a warning tone.

Sherlock looked at the officer's name-tag. Lestrade was his last name. It sounded familiar, maybe he knew someone in his class with Lestrade as a last name. No—wait, he knew. It was Gavin. (Graham? George?) Gavin Lestrade. It was John's former friend.

Shut up, no time to think of John now,Sherlock scolded himself and then looked back up at the officer.

"Did you find two more twins dead? Why are you all so noisy and rowdy today? This only happens when you find a dead body," Sherlock inquired hastily. "Don't lie, officer. Just tell me if you found a new body and I'll solve the case. I want to be in the case let me be in the case—"

"Kid," the man growled that out as a warning. Sherlock fell quiet, glaring at him for not telling him anything. "You have to leave."

"If there are more twins found, then for Christ's sake, don't miss the hints. They're right there. Right in front of you! I can show you. I can tell you." Sherlock pushed. Then, he took in a small breath, placed his hands together and put them on his lips as he asked, again, "Has there been another set of dead bodies?"

"I'm going to call your parents if you don't leave now, do you understand?" The man hissed and Sherlock dismissed it.

"Just tell me, have there been more bodies? Look, I'll leave if you tell me and you can keep the folder. Just tell me—" Sherlock pushed and pushed. He just had to know.

"Call this boy's mother," Officer Lestrade ordered the receptionist and Sherlock gulped. Maybe he shouldn't have introduced himself, they'll find Mummy in no time. (Stupid.)

Sherlock panicked once he saw the receptionist start to look for his mother's number. He whipped around to face Officer Lestrade, "Okay okay, I'll leave—just—keep the folder okay? It'll help. I promise. There's so much you've missed. Take it. Please?"

"I know I'm thirteen, my physical appearance and age may tell you that I won't be any help at all—but it's painful seeing you guys solve this so slowly. Just take the folder!" Sherlock pushed it into the officer's hands forcibly as he said that with half a yell.

The officer took the folder into his hands and looked down at it. Then, with narrowed eyes, said, "We'll keep the folder. Just don't come poking your nose where it doesn't belong again, understand me? I've seen you hover around here."

Satisfied, Sherlock turned around to leave but was stopped by the two policemen in front of the door. He let out one big audible groan.

Sherlock's mother was called in and she was fuming. Mummy was not happy at all. She apologised for the inconvenience to the officer and then angrily told Sherlock to get to the car.

Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he walked over to the car.

The whole car ride was Mummy scolding him. Asking him "what the bloody hell were you thinking" and then occasionally saying, "what am I going to do with you".

Sherlock stayed silent throughout the car ride, he figured it would be the best thing to do because he didn't want to make Mummy even angrier by proving her wrong or pointing out errors. Maybe if he deduced her she'd shut up, but then he'd get hit on the head. Most likely.

They made it home and Sherlock was ordered to go to his room and so he did it while mocking her voice.

Mummy only let him out to eat dinner that day, which he barely ate. Mycroft didn't come home, because he was busy at university, so Sherlock stayed with Mummy.

His punishment lasted about two days. Mummy was too busy to keep him in check, so she gave him one good scolding and then Sherlock was ungrounded.

Sherlock had been banned from the police station, so he couldn't get in. Which irritated him and he would stomp angrily back home.

Then finally, he got his answer to his question.

When playing the violin in front of the television as the news played, Sherlock only stopped once he heard the breaking news from Scotland Yard. He turned around and looked at the telly with intense concentration.

They had found a body. But what was weird, was the fact that it was just one. No twins. One singular child.

"The police are still on the process of recognising the body, but for now, we warn all parents to keep their children inside," the news reporter said.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. He was certain he would be able to recognise the body much faster than the police. He went back to playing his violin since the information the news reporter gave after was things he already knew. Sherlock focused on the fact that the killer had broken his pattern. It was one child now. Not twins.

Damn it.

Only two days passed until the police recognised the body. Mummy was home when the news came out, classes for her were cancelled so she was able to pick Sherlock up. (She wouldn't let him walk alone anymore, due to the serial killer. Judging by the fact that he had broken his pattern, singular children could be at risk as well.)

After lunch, Sherlock stayed in his room and studied the killer again. (Mummy didn't disturb him. He'd told her to not come in when he was doing experiments.) He was frowning. Why did this man break his pattern?

Sherlock was only brought out of his trance once he heard the news playing downstairs. Mummy was sleeping, he was sure of it.

So, he took the opportunity to go downstairs and watch the telly. Finally. Some insight, some more clues as to who this killer killed and why he broke his pattern.

"The body of the victim has been recognised by Scotland Yard. They confirmed that it was a boy, around thirteen years of age and 152 centimetres in height—"

_Okay, who is it? Just say it already._ Sherlock frowned at the news reporter.

"Parents of the boy have been notified. This is the seventh victim that has been found. Further investigation will be taken."

"Just show the picture—" Sherlock audibly complained with a frustrated tone. But right after, the news reported showed the picture of the boy and Sherlock's breath was stolen from his lungs.

That was...

That was Victor.

"Victor Trevor had gone missing for about ten hours or so. The parents did not notify the police since it was believed that Victor was at a friend's for a sleepover. But the boy was found in the river, drowned and beat to anonymity. No one was able to recognise him until now. Scotland Yard will run further investigations."

_I-Why Victor? What was he doing? Why him? I_ — Sherlock's mind was slowing down. He couldn't think. There was something blocking his constant thinking, his constant deductions. It felt like a headache, but Sherlock didn't only feel it in his head, but everywhere. It hurt. Everywhere.

"I—Victor—Redbeard—" Sherlock tried to sputter out words that would remind him ofVictor, that would get his mind to give in and believe this had happened. That would get his mind to get out of this stupid sentimental trance he was in. But—he couldn't, his mind was getting foggier and foggier. Facts and logic distancing themselves and being replaced with emotions and feelings.

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat and he knew his hands were getting sweaty. He hadn't felt this since the first time he got bullied. Sherlock's whole body was aching for a distraction, it wasn't used to feeling this much emotion.

_My violin...where's my violin?_ Sherlock looked around the room desperately. As he looked, he repeated four words in his head. Victor. Redbeard. Dead. Gone.

He could've found the suspect before Victor had been killed.

Sherlock could've found him and he didn't.

Once he found his instrument, Sherlock shakily picked up the violin and played 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' as a way to get distracted. He didn't care if Mycroft got angry, or if Mummy told him to stop.

Victor was dead.

Victor was dead and Sherlock hadn't given him a proper goodbye.

There was an unintentional vibrato in his playing that night. His hands were shaking and so was his whole body.

Victor's death was something that threw Sherlock off for weeks. He stopped eating, he stopped with the experiments and was aching for a distraction. The violin was not enough. He could play as many pieces, he could compose as many sad and grieving pieces for himself, but it would not be enough. He was desperate. He was desperate for another emotion to replace this horrible feeling his whole body was under.

Mummy tried to comfort him, she knew he was not alright but all her attempts failed. Sherlock didn't pay attention to her, nor did he pay attention to Mycroft, who was being nice for once just because of what had happened to Victor.

Sherlock and Mycroft visited Victor's grave. Mummy said it would be best to see it, get some closure and then make some conversation. She couldn't come herself due to urgent classes and she felt horrible for it.

"I'm so sorry, I want to join, I want to accompany you there—" Mummy started but Sherlock cut her off.

"Whatever, I'll go with Mycroft. He'll drop me off," Sherlock muttered emotionlessly. Sherlock opened the door and saw Mycroft already outside, by a black car. (Chauffeur will drive. Mycroft's spoiled arse has a damn chauffeur.)

"Sherlock—" Mummy started but he turned to look at her with a glare.

"I said Mycroft will drop me. Are you deaf? I know you're sorry, but the countless of nights you've spent on this lecture can't be wasted. Stop, just go," Sherlock hissed and then closed the door on her face before he wouldn't be able to stop his deductions getting to a more hurtful place.

Mycroft looked less stoic than usual. He had a brief shocked expression, mainly because Sherlock had just shut the door on their mother's face and she had her sad face pressed up against the door's window. Maybe sentiment was getting to him too. Sherlock glared and frowned at him, he didn't like it when people looked at him like that. "Don't look at me like I'm five and lost my toy, Mycroft."

"You didn't lose a toy. You've lost a friend, brother mine," Mycroft replied slowly. His voice. It reeked of pity. Sherlock despised it.

Sherlock huffed, anger surging up in him. The mention of the word 'friends did something to Sherlock's body, it made him hurt. It made his head hurt. This was a headache that wouldn't go away. He hated it. He hated feeling all these emotions. "Shut up."

The ride to the cemetery was dead quiet. Once in awhile, Mycroft would shoot him a brief glance. It was like a check-up, to check if Sherlock would break down into tears and cry out Victor's name. But no, Sherlock only looked out the window with his head pressed up against the glass. Silent. Eyes scanning everything that passed him.

They reached the cemetery. Sherlock located Victor's grave quickly and stopped right in front of it. Mycroft stood beside him, looking down at the grave as well.

"Mycroft," Sherlock murmured as they stood in front of Victor's grave.

"Yes?" Mycroft replied, just as quietly.

"Teach me how to not feel."

Mycroft shuffled a bit. Sherlock heard the scuffing noise of his expensive shoes on the wet grass below.

"I can't teach you that."

“Just tell me how you do it,” Sherlock hissed out, his tone sharpening.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft started, his tone quiet. Again, it reeked of pity and Sherlock found it even more irritating hearing it comes from Mycroft rather than anyone else. “I can’t teach you that.”

“I’ll teach myself then,” Sherlock grumbled out. Those words almost came out as a growl but Sherlock figured that if he truly wanted to shut out all emotion, he’d have to cut his anger off at any time he can. He’d have to find a way to get rid of this hurting feeling in his body as well. “This—I don’t like this. I don’t like feeling. I hate you for not being able to feel anything you know? I wish I was the same. You were right, you bastard. Emotions are pointless. Not logical. Just a limitation. A weakness.”

Mycroft did not reply, he stayed silent. Sherlock could sense some sort of uncomfortable emotion coming from him, but Mycroft didn’t say anything. The next thing Sherlock heard was the shuffling of expensive shoes on the wet grass and then a small sigh.

“Place the flowers down. We can leave if you want to,” Mycroft told him. Sherlock did so. Holding back a sniffle, Sherlock crouched down and slowly placed the flowers on Victor’s grave. It was a bouquet of a few flowers and each flower meant something, Sherlock researched it before coming here. He had to make sure the flowers made sense.

Pink roses for friendship, since Sherlock figured that Victor and him were friends. White carnations for remembrance and red carnations just to put something for Redbeard.

Sherlock couldn’t care less about flowers, but he truly wanted to make sure that Victor had flowers that meant something. The concept of an afterlife was a ridiculous thing in Sherlock’s eyes, but as improbable as its existence was, he hoped that if it really existed, that Victor would appreciate the research Sherlock had put into his flowers and hopefully forgive him for not keeping contact with him.

Sherlock got back to his feet and looked at the grave one last time. Reading over Victor’s name at least two times. Then, he turned to Mycroft and the two-headed away from the grave.

When they got home, Mummy was in tears and she hugged Sherlock and wouldn’t let go for a good five minutes. Once she was done, Mycroft said his goodbyes, flashed Sherlock a look and then headed back to the black car and off to whatever government job he had.

“Did you place the flowers?”

“Yes.”

“How-how are you feeling?” Mummy asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied. If he wanted this to work, then he’d have to avoid being reminded of the emotions he was feeling.

Mummy didn’t look convinced, Sherlock didn’t bother convincing her further. He went up to his room, closed the door and then looked for his violin.

As he played, Sherlock’s hand shook. Creating a vibrato in the whole piece.

That stupid, unintentional vibrato would not leave. It ruined his piece.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock stopped playing, threw the violin on his bed as well as the bow and grabbed on to his desk. Not only were his hands shaking, but his whole body as well.

_Stop_ , Sherlock told himself, looking down at his hands as they shook even if they were pressed up against the desk. _Just stop. It’s pointless feeling like this—emotions are pointless—_

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. He tried reciting the periodic table. Tried reciting all of Shakespeare’s “Macbeth”. But the shaking was still there, his head was still hurting.

Eventually, it calmed down, but it wouldn’t leave entirely. The vibrato was still there. The pain was still there for weeks. He was practically useless. He hated himself, he needed something more distracting than just playing the violin. He needed a zap of electricity to get his mind working again. Or a case. Another murder.

He just hated feeling.

Sherlock swore not to feel anything again. He had to.

For his own sake.


End file.
